


Uomo Comune

by ButterflyGhost



Series: Marco Matroni [2]
Category: due South
Genre: Alcohol, Drugs, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray Vecchio's continuing journey into manhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uomo Comune

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dogsled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogsled/gifts).



> Sequel to Ti Amo, which was originally written for the due South Seekrit Santa 2014. Thanks to Dogsled's excellent prompts, this is now a series. And thanks again to Happy29, who checked and rechecked the draft, making sure that I didn't call characters by the wrong name, and kept my tenses and verbs accurate. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

 

 

A month in, Ray knows he’s made a mistake with the English. He just doesn’t have time to read this stuff. Dickens is the worst. Not that he’s a bad writer, but he’s so old-fashioned. He waffles till Ray just wants to dig him up and hit him on the head with the book. Instead, Ray keeps falling asleep at the college library with his head on ‘Great Expectations.’ The Italian’s not so bad - the first book on the reading list is Primo Levi: ‘Se Questo è un Uomo’ and he can’t put it down. He’s translating a passage into English, and blinks back tears: ‘Monsters exist, but they are too few in number to be truly dangerous. More dangerous are the common men, the functionaries ready to believe and to act without asking questions.’

 

_That’s me._ He pinches his nose, remembering Marco, and then shunting the memory away. _I’m a common man. I don’t want to be a common man. I don’t want to be a functionary._

 

He thinks about Nonna, wonders how different his life would have been if instead of her converting to Catholicism when she married Nonno Esposa it had been the other way round. He can’t imagine it. For one thing, Ma’s just so Catholic he can’t imagine her any other way, for another - he’d never have been born. No way Pa would have married her if he’d known she had Jewish blood. He damn near put her in the hospital when he found out — Ray was — how old was he? Musta been about six.

 

Ma would have been happier if her own mother hadn’t changed religion. At least - if her family had got out of Italy alive.

 

After he’s read the book a few times he goes out and buys everything else of Levi’s he can get his hands on, even though they’re not on the reading list. Most of the other kids aren’t fluent. He’s top of the class. He reckons he’ll run into trouble when they’ve got to study Dante, but at least he’s doing okay with Italian.

 

But the English is causing him nightmares. When he moves onto Middlemarch he thinks his brain is going to explode.

 

Six weeks after he started, he is called in to see the Dean.

 

“So, Mr Vecchio,” Father Wilson says. “I’ve got some feedback from your tutors and lecturers.”

 

_Oh God,_ Ray thinks, and sits in the too comfy armchair. He can’t meet the guy’s eyes. _This is it. I flunked out, and I haven’t even finished my first semester._

 

“Interesting results,” the Dean says, in a crisp and really irritating English accent. “You’re doing very well in your major. It doesn’t make sense that you’re failing your minor. The disciplines are very similar after all. Why do you think that is?”

 

“Uhm...” Ray can’t tell him how many hours he’s working - the college has a cap on it, so that students have enough time to study. He can tell him a little though. “Well, I’m doing a few shifts at the factory,” he admits. “To support my family. And, uhm, I guess sometimes I’m tired.”

 

“You’re not working too many hours, are you?” The Dean looks up at him sharply. “You know the college policy, and we can’t bend regulations for that.”

 

“Oh, no Father.” Ray lies his ass off. He’s used to lying to priests. “I’m only working a half shift at the weekend.”

 

“Good. See you don’t do more than that.” The Dean leans back in his chair calmly, and ponders Ray, his gaze so intent that he squirms in his seat. The guy’s going to see right through his bullshit. “And, you’re not living on campus, I see?”

 

“No, Sir. I travel across town to see my Ma.”

 

“Well. I’m sure your Ma can live without you at your age. This is a campus college after all. And you’ll study better without making yourself have long commutes every day.”

 

Ray blushes. “I can’t afford a room on campus.”

 

“You’ve been assigned one.”

 

“Yeah, but....” Ray lets out a deep breath. “It’s not just I can’t afford it. I couldn’t really study in there either. Or, you know, sleep. My roomie’s always got people round, and the music’s really distracting.” He knows he might get Torres in trouble, but the dick kind of deserves it. At least Ray didn’t tell the Dean that his roomie’s been smoking pot.

 

The Dean nods. “I suspected that. I’ve heard other complaints about Mr Torres. Well,” he says, and pulls out a sheaf of paper. “Consider this a reprieve of sorts. It doesn’t look good for the college when a promising student drops out, and we do have protocols for this kind of thing.”

 

“Protocols?”

 

“We can change your roommate, which should help. And I know rooms are expensive for some students. I suspect if you had a bursary, you wouldn’t have to work so much at the factory.”

 

_Wait, what? They’re offering me a new room and a bursary?_

 

“I thought you were kicking me out.”

 

“Not yet. Not if you put the work in.”

 

“Thank you, Father.”

 

“Don’t make me regret this, Mr Vecchio. Some students have dropped out of college already, so there are rooms going spare. The college will fund your board for the rest of the semester, on the understanding that you pull your English grade up. If you prove my faith in you, we can make it a rolling bursary.”

 

_Oh. Holy shit._ Ray doesn’t know if he is relieved, offended to be a charity case, or annoyed that he’s going to have to try to make this work. Other people are trying to help him, and he got this far.

 

“Thank you, Father,” he says.

 

The Dean nods, like he knew Ray was going to accept it, and the next thing Ray knows he’s signing  a dozen forms. He has no idea what he’s putting his name on, he’s too freaked out to read, but at least he’s not signing it in blood and he knows he’s got a second chance.

 

When he’s finished scribbling signatures, and pretending to examine the small print, the Dean is smiling. “Good luck, Mr Vecchio,” he says. “I hope to see you here next semester.”

 

“Yeah.” Despite his reservations, Ray suddenly grins. “Thank you, Father. I hope so too.”

~*~

 

Ma’s torn between pride he got a bursary and heartbreak that he’s leaving the house. She doesn’t understand the bursary is for poverty reasons, and calls her sister up in Florida to tell her that Ray’s got a scholarship. He cringes, and stops trying to explain the difference. He glances round the table. Everyone’s already sitting for dinner. Paulie and Frannie are getting impatient about the hold up, not paying any attention to the phone call, and they don’t care what the difference between a bursary and a scholarship is. Tony has his walkman on, he hasn’t heard. The only person who knows is Maria, and she flashes him a look of sympathy. “It makes Ma happy,” she points out.

 

“She’ll be telling everyone at the bridge club next.”

 

“Where’s the harm?”

 

Ray thinks about that. He can’t imagine people in this neighbourhood knowing much about the goings on at college, or caring one way or the other. So, maybe one of the women Ma cleans for, some middle-class soccer Mom, might figure it out and laugh behind Ma’s back. But nobody’s going to say anything to her face.

 

He sighs, and slumps his shoulders. “I suppose,” he says, and puts out the salad.

 

Then Ma gets off the phone and starts serving dinner, smiling and a little teary-eyed. “I’ll still visit every week,” Ray promises her, as he doles out the garlic bread, “and I’m still gonna help with the bills.”

 

Maria swipes the headphones off Tony’s ears as he sits at the table and starts filling his face. “I’ve got myself a job,” she says, “full-time, so things are a bit easier now.”

 

“Who’s  gonna look after Frannie?”

 

“I will,” says Paulie, and Frannie throws everyone at the dinner table a spiteful glance.

 

“Hey,” she says, “that was ages ago. I know better now. It’s not like I need a babysitter.”

 

Ray wants to believe her, but he knows what he was like at that age. It’s even more dangerous for a girl. He stares around the table, hoping to be convinced.

 

“I promise,” Paulie insists, then adds with some pride, “if you’re at college, I’m the man of the house now.”

 

“I’m the man of the house,” Tony says, his mouth full.

 

“You are not,” Paulie sneers at him. “You don’t have a job, and you’ve not married Maria.”

 

“I’m going to, I’m going to!”

 

“First I’ve heard of it,” Maria says, caustically.

 

“I’m just saying.” Paulie sticks his chin out. “I can look after Frannie.”

 

Frannie flings her fork down on the table. “I’m not a slut, you know.”

 

“Basta,” Ma says, and jabs her finger at Frannie. “I’ll not have that language at the table.”

 

“Only if Pa uses it,” Frannie fires defiantly back.

 

“Well, he’s not here, is he?” Ma says. Ray glances at her across the table, startled. Did she kick him out again?

 

“Where is he?”

 

“Probably with his goomah,” Paulie says, and everyone at the table freezes. This is turning out to be a really bad conversation.

 

“Well, he can stay with her this time,” Ma sniffs. “I’ve had enough. I’m not letting him back in.”

 

_Oh my God,_ Ray thinks, maybe she means it this time. _Maybe I really can move out._

 

“Okay,” he says, “so, I’ll cut back my work hours a bit, I’ll study in college, and I’ll come home for Saturday night and Sundays.

 

Ma can’t really complain about that, though she still wipes a tear from her eye.

~*~

 

Next day he  moves all his stuff into his new room. His new roomie’s not there yet. There are two narrow beds, on opposite sides of the room. It’s obvious which side is Ray’s. The roomie’s side has a set of loose weights, and a heap of dirty clothes at the bottom of the bed. Ray starts folding up his own clothes, putting them neatly away. He’s treated himself to some nice threads. New start and everything. He doesn’t have to look like a paisano.

 

He’s just about finished when the new guy comes in. He’s blond, a jock type. Bigger than Ray. Linebacker build. Probably a football player or something. Figures with the weights. From the ring he’s in a fraternity. Ray’s not joined one. Doesn’t really want to, and he’s not sure what they’re for. He’s not much of one for semi-secret societies anyway, though he guesses they can’t all be like the Mob.

 

“So,” the jock says. “You’re my new roomie.”

 

“Yeah,” Ray says. “I’ll try to keep out of your way.”

 

“You were with that Spic kid, weren’t you?”

 

“Yeah,” Ray says. “But his name’s Torres.” He already doesn’t like this guy.

 

“You’re from the Boot, aren’t you?”

 

Ray _really_ doesn’t like this guy. It’s okay for Italians to call Italy the Boot, but it makes this guy sound like a wannabe, pretentious.

 

“I’m from Chicago,” he says, bluntly.

 

“Yeah. That’s why you’re majoring in Italian. Easy Major. You connected?”

 

Ray folds his arms and glares.

 

“Woah, woah!” The other guy laughs. “I know you can’t say. I’m only asking. You ever kill a guy?”

 

Ray narrows his eyes, puts on his bad ass face. “Not yet,” he says, “but I’m seriously considering it.”

 

Jock guy frowns at him, like he’s not sure if Ray’s joking. Ray’s not a hundred percent sure either. He just glares till the guy sits down.

 

“Okay,” the jock says, and sticks his hand out. “We got off to a bad start. My name’s Kyle. Kyle Wilson. You can call me Kyle.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Wilson,” Ray says, pointedly ignoring the offered hand, and sprawls out on his own bed with his books. “You call me Vecchio. Now I got to study, so shut up or I’ll whack you.”

 

Suddenly Kyle is sniggering, then Ray’s sniggering too. Kyle opens his mouth to say something, and Ray throws him his bad ass glare again. Kyle shuts up, and Ray starts reading George Elliot, taking notes about characters and themes. He’s not finished, but he knows already that Dorothea is going to renounce her fortune and marry Ladislaw. It’s probably really romantic, but it’s dragging on and on. He just wants them to get together and fuck already. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen in _this_ book. God, he can’t wait till they get to American authors. These dead Brits really know how to stretch out a story.

 

At least Kyle shuts up, and lets him study.

 

Ray reads, until he falls asleep with the book on his head.

~*~

 

After that first conversation, Kyle stops being such a jackass, and Ray relaxes a little. He knows he’d promised himself to stop it, but he’s found a new source of dexie, so he’s able to sit up all night and get his papers done on time. Italian is still going easy, but he’s surprised when he gets a B+ for his English paper. He phones Ma and tells her, and she’s thrilled. He shouldn’t have phoned her on a Wednesday, she’s got Mrs Vercelli around. Ma starts bragging about him, and he rolls his eyes. “Ma, it’s not like I won the Nobel Prize or anything, it’s still just a B.”

 

“B+,” she says, “and I’m sure you’ll get an A next time.”

 

“Gee, thanks for not putting any pressure on me,” but he’s grinning. He’s not going to tell her he cribbed a lot of his notes from Hannah Goldberg. Ma hasn’t asked him about any girls, and he doesn’t want to get her started.

 

Later that week when he’s studying in his room, Kyle turns up. His eyes are a bit glittery, like he’s been doing coke, which is usual on a Friday night. The guy locks the door, and leans against it. He’s fidgety, too much energy in a small space, and it’s making Ray nervous. “How’s it going with Hannah?” Kyle says.

 

“Nothing’s going with Hannah,” Ray carries on staring at his books. “She’s got a boyfriend.”

 

“Does she know that?”

 

“Yeah, she knows that. Who do you think told me?”

 

Kyle looks a little sly. “I met a friend of yours today.”

 

“I don’t got friends,” Ray says.

 

“Hey,” Kyle says. “I thought _we_ were friends. Anyway. This guy in my fraternity. He says you two go _way_ back.”

 

Ray has a bad feeling.

 

“You remember Frankie Zuko, don’t you?”

 

Ray stands up, and makes toward the door, tries to muscle past Kyle. Kyle moves easily to block him. “It’s okay,” Kyle says. “I don’t have a problem with you being a faggot.”

 

Ray hauls back and thumps him. Kyle thumps back. Next thing Ray knows, he’s flat on the floor. It’s like being hit by a truck. As he’s scrambling to sit up, head still spinning, Kyle crouches in front of him, and Ray freezes. The guy’s much, much bigger than him, six five easy, and he’s obviously high. High enough to get really nasty. Fuck. This close up, Ray can see his muscles all bunched up under his t-shirt. He really _does_ work out. Kyle’s eyes are hyper-focused, and very blue, the pupils crazed and tiny. There’s a trickle of blood running from his mouth where Ray hit him, but he’s still smiling. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re a fag.”

 

Ray can’t breathe. He can’t say a fucking word. Kyle nods, like he just learned a secret, and touches Ray’s cheek, where he thumped him, strokes him gently.

 

“Sorry about that,” Kyle says. “I won’t tell anyone.”

 

“There’s nothing to tell.”

 

“Right,” Kyle says, and kneels over him, legs on either side of his hips, hands braced on either side his head. “Roll over.”

 

Ray thinks about it. Kyle is flying on something. He’s so high that even if Ray knees him the nuts, it’ll probably just piss him off, and then he’ll beat the shit out of him.

 

“Go on. Roll over.”

 

Ray shuts his eyes, and rolls over. This isn’t going to happen like it did with Frankie. If he rolls over and accepts it, it’s not the same as being raped.

 

“Take your pants off.”

 

Ray fumbles with his buckle and zipper, and Kyle tugs his pants down past his knees.

 

“That’s good,” Kyle says. “Nice ass. Now spread your legs.”

 

Ray spreads them as far as he can with the pants bunched up around him.

 

“Do you have anything?” he says, his voice sounding hoarse. Fuck, he’s getting turned on.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like... like a condom. Lube.”

 

Kyle laughs. “Boy,” he says. “You really _have_ done this before.”

 

“Have you got the stuff?” Ray insists. Kyle sniggers.

 

“I’ll get something for next time.”

 

“You won’t get in,” Ray squeaks, and starts shutting his legs. “It’s too tight.”

 

“That’s what I like to hear,” Kyle says, yanks his legs back apart again, and settles himself between them, his weight on Ray’s back. “I tell you what I _do_ have.”

 

Ray presses his face to the floor. He doesn’t want to know.

 

“I’ve got poppers.”

 

“I don’t do drugs.”

 

“Sure you do. You get dexie from de Santo.”

 

“That’s....” _None of your business,_ he wants to say. “That’s different. It helps me study.”

 

“And this will help you fuck. I bet you haven’t got laid since you left high school.”

 

That really _is_ none of his business.

 

“Come on,” Kyle wheedles. “A good fuck will make you feel better.”

 

_Maybe it will at that._ “Oh God,” Ray groans. How did this happen? Just a minute ago he was doing his translations. Kyle is really heavy, and he’s already got his dick out. Ray can feel it nudging against his butt cheeks, and he knows he’s not getting out of this one without being fucked up the ass.

 

“Come on, Baby.” Kyle is squeezing his shoulder with one hand, rhythmically, like he’s trying to calm him down. “Here.” With the other hand he plops a tiny bottle in front of Ray, flicks off the lid and holds it steady. “Stick your nose on it, and take a nice deep sniff.

 

Ray closes his eyes, and does what he is told.

 

“Nice?”

 

“Ah...” It’s all he can say. Ray’s dizzy, like his head just got bigger and emptier at the same time. His mouth falls open, he feels his ass open even, and everything is suddenly hollow, wanting to be filled. For maybe one second, he’d take a cock up his ass and his mouth at the same time, if there was another cock available. Then Kyle is shoving into him, real fast. It burns, feels awful, like he’s taking a shit backward; Ray’s dick goes soft. Oh God, he really needed the lube.

 

“How’s that?”

 

“Fuck off,” Ray grunts. Already he’s losing the headrush.

 

“You want me to talk dirty?”

 

“I want you to get out.”

 

“Not yet, Vecchio. Oh, Baby, you’re right. You’re so tight. I’m going to make you come.”

 

Ray thunks his head down. “Just get it over with.”

 

Kyle talks dirty, and fucks him, and Ray doesn’t say a word.

~*~

 

That night Kyle goes for it twice, really hard. Once on the floor, and once on Ray’s bed, with no finesse at all. Ray doesn’t come. He’s certain now that Kyle took coke earlier, from the way he’s banging into him.

 

Afterward, he has to get cleaned up and change for work. He’s feeling scrambled in the head, and as he takes a dexie he wonders if this was his fault. Maybe Kyle wouldn’t have done this if he hadn’t thought Ray was up for drugs.

 

He drops a crate on his foot at the start of his shift, and it cracks the steel cap of his safety boot. He slips in a puddle of gasoline, and drops his tools, then he messes up his cables twice. The foreman calls him a moron and docks his pay. The whole time he’s working, he feels Kyle’s cock up his ass. It’s like it’s still there. Even though he didn’t enjoy it at the time he can’t stop thinking about it. Twice, on his breaks, he has to go and jack off in the john. That hasn’t happened for ages. He’d thought he was getting better.

 

_I’m going home,_ he thinks. _I’m ditching college. I can’t do this again. I can’t live like this._

 

When he gets home, Saturday morning, he tells Ma that college is too much. She won’t have it. “But you’re doing so well.”

 

“I just don’t like the people.” He keeps shifting on the kitchen chair, feeling that stupid bastard’s cock inside him, and trying to eat yesterday’s leftovers, risotto zafronne. “They’re stuck up, they all think they’re better than me.”

 

“You’ll meet people in life you don’t like,” Ma says. “You get used to it. You think I like cleaning rich people’s toilets?”

 

“I can’t do it, Ma.”

 

“You have to.” Her tone is flat, authoritative. There’s no way he can let her down.

 

And he can’t go to the Dean either. If he asks for a different roomie again, the guy will want to know why. It’s a Catholic college. If word gets out what he did, they’ll kick him out for sure. Probably not Kyle though. His family has money and he’s on the football team. Plus, he’s in with Frankie.

 

If Ma ever finds out what he did, it’ll probably kill her. He can’t tell anyone.

 

“Okay, Ma.” He stares at the risotto. “Okay.”

~*~

 

On Monday, Kyle behaves like nothing happened. He’s still a jackass, but he doesn’t look at him funny, doesn’t make any comments, and Ray begins to think maybe it was a one off. Maybe Kyle got too high to remember he what he’d done. Ray plans to be studying in the library on Friday though. Just in case.

 

Kyle comes to him on Thursday, in the middle of the night. Ray wakes up in bed, and somebody is straddling his thighs, has their hand pressed over his mouth and nose.

 

“Don’t scream.” Kyle’s voice in the darkness. “I know you like it.”

 

Ray struggles, and tries to bite the hand on his face. Kyle squeezes his throat harder; white spots begin to dance before Ray’s eyes.

 

“You want it rough, or easy?” Kyle asks, and releases Ray’s face and throat.

 

“Easy,” Ray gasps, before he can stop himself.

 

“Shame,” Kyle says. “I liked doing you rough.”

 

“Get off me.”

 

“Yeah, right. You were gagging for it last time.” Kyle shoves his hand under the bedsheets, and grabs Ray’s cock through the fabric of his PJ’s. “You’re gagging for it now. You’re hard.”

 

“That’s because you damn near suffocated me,” Ray says. Maybe he can talk him out of this. “It’s a biological response.”

 

“Yeah?” Kyle’s hand starts moving on Ray’s cock. Ray thrashes, but he can’t get his legs free. He lurches, trying to sit up, and Kyle squeezes his dick so hard it hurts. Ray goes still. He won’t let himself thrust. “Biological response is it?” Kyle’s voice is smug. “I thought it was a hard-on.”

 

“Get your hand off me.”

 

“Tell yourself whatever you need to believe, Vecchio, Baby, but you know you’re hard for me.”

 

“Get the hell off of me.” Ray twists, trying to dislodge the weight; pain spikes through his dick, and he goes still, sweating.

 

“I thought you wanted this easy.” Kyle snickers. “Besides. I got you lube.”

 

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to do it.”

 

“Roll over, Baby.” Kyle eases up a little, to give Ray wriggle room. “You know you want to.”

 

Ray’s frozen. “No.”

 

“Open your mouth then.”

 

“I’m not giving you a blow job.” _I’ll fucking bite you first._

 

“No. You’re not. I like your ass too much.”

 

“I’m not doing drugs.”

 

Kyle puts his hand back on Ray’s throat, and squeezes. Ray gags, and opens his mouth. Kyle drops something in it, then holds his jaw shut, pinches his nostrils. He bears his weight down, and the whole time he’s choking him, he’s grinding Ray’s cock with his thigh.

 

“Swallow, you stupid fuck,” Kyle says. “This’ll make it easy.”

 

Ray tries not to, he really tries, but he can’t breath. His throat clicks, and he swallows. The mattress shifts as Kyle moves back, and then he’s grabbed Ray’s cock again and started pumping. Ray lashes out wildly, and feels his fist connect with something. Kyle laughs, and there’s a crack as he backhands Ray across the face. Ray feels his skin split against Kyle’s fraternity ring. “That’s good. More you fight it, the more I like it.”

 

“Figlio puttana! Get off me.” Ray claws at the darkness, scratches something, and Kyle is laughing, smacks him back. “Cazzo che ti fotte!” Ray’s voice is wrecked. Someone’s got to hear this. Someone’s got to stop it. “Vaffanculo! Fuck off, obatzo, you crazy fucking cunt -”

 

Kyle cracks him across the head again, twice. “Talk dirty to me, slut.”

 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

 

“Yeah, right. Give it a few minutes.”

 

“What the hell did you give me?”

 

“Just something to help you relax, Baby.”

 

“I’m not going to relax you fucking retard.” Ray manages to sit up, yanks his hard-on out of Kyle’s hand, and tries to pull himself off the bed. Oh God. His head is spinning. Kyle pushes him back down again, and he falls, dizzy.

 

“Just lie there and go with it,” Kyle says. “You might think you’ll get out of here, but believe me, by the time you get to the end of the hall, you’ll be too stoned and turned on to remember where the hell you are. You don’t want anyone else finding you like that.”

 

“God, I hate you.”

 

“That’s alright, Baby. You don’t have to love me, you just have to let me fuck you.”

 

“Why?” Ray’s voice is sounding drifty and strange. Oh, God. Whatever it is, it’s working fast. “Why are you doing this to me?”

 

“Because Frankie told me all about you,” Kyle murmurs, and his lips are at Ray’s throat. “Because I know I can.” He bites, and sucks. “Because you don’t dare tell your Mommy, and you don’t want anyone to know you’re a faggot.” There’s a tearing noise, and Ray hears the buttons of his PJ’s pop. One hand lands on Ray’s chest, twists a nipple, hard. Ray squeezes his eyes against the pain. “Because you’ve got more to lose if you’re kicked out, and I like a bit of rough.” Kyle goes for the other nipple, and Ray groans, feels his hips thrust up. “Because no matter how much you whine about it, or how much you play the tough guy, you’re gonna take it up the ass. You’re gonna come for me, Vecchio, and you’re gonna know that you’re my bitch. Now. Roll over.”

 

Ray rolls over. His limbs feel floppy and strange. He should be scared, but he’s floating, tingling - even the pain in his nipples and dick feels good now. He’s warm. His cock is straining against his PJ bottoms, popping through the slit, and his skin wants to be touched all over. He’s humping the bedsheet. “Testa di cazzo,” he says, horrified, and he can hardly hear himself. “Shit. What did you give me?”

 

“Just enough,” Kyle says, sounding smug. “Told you you’d like it.”

 

“I don’t like it.”

 

“Why are you fucking your mattress then?” Kyle turns the light on, and Ray squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden glare. “You look like a dog in heat.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Kyle says, and tugs Ray’s pants down, puts a finger up his ass. “See? I got you lube. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

 

Ray moans. He’s still sore from last time, but this feels good.

 

“Tell me you like it.”

 

“No.”

 

Another finger goes in, spreads him. It hurts, and Kyle is missing the spot, but it’s good.

 

“Tell me you like it.”

 

Ray pushes back against Kyle’s hand.

 

“Tell me you like it.”

 

God, he’s never going to shut up.

 

“I like it.”

 

“Good.” Kyle pulls his fingers out, and Ray’s ass follows them, aching and empty. “You want it, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Tell me you want it.”

 

“I want it.”

 

Then there’s a blunt pressure, and Kyle pushes his way in.

~*~

 

This time when Kyle fucks him, Ray comes. Kyle goes at him a few times. Kind of blurs into one - Ray can’t count that high. It doesn’t hurt so much this time, partly because of the lube, but mainly because Ray’s in outer space. When Kyle is finished, Ray’s still horny, and he lies on his back, naked and crying, one arm covering his eyes, trying to make himself come for the last time. Kyle is laughing, and saying he should have got a camera.

 

The next morning, when Ray wakes up, he remembers everything, even though he’s still half stoned.

 

“Wanna go again?” Kyle says.

 

“Yeah, sure.” Ray shudders. “Why not?”

~*~

 

So, then he’s Kyle’s bitch. At first, he tells himself, it doesn’t work out too bad. They negotiate. Kyle won’t use condoms, but Ray reckons he’s doomed anyway, so who cares, as long as the guy lubes up? Which he does most times. Ray manages to explain that he has to get his assignments done, and that he has to be fit to work a couple of shifts at the weekend. Kyle is magnanimous about it, and says he’s got other shit going on, so he really only needs Ray once a week, or maybe the occasional party.

 

“I’m not going to any parties.”

 

“You know you are.”

 

“Everyone will know.”

 

“Everyone already knows, Baby.”

 

Ray feels sick. If everyone knows, the college will find out, and then he’s busted.

 

“What’s wrong, Baby?”

 

“Stop calling me that.”

 

“Why?” Kyle cuffs his cheek affectionately. “It’s funny.”

 

Ray decides he’s never calling a woman ‘Baby’ again.

 

“If people know,” he says, turning away from Kyle, “I’m gonna get kicked out.”

 

“You won’t get kicked out,” Kyle says, sounding serious for once. “All you gotta do is say it’s an ugly rumour. Frankie will back you up.”

 

“Why the hell would Frankie back me up?”

 

Kyle shrugs. “Maybe he still wants a piece of you.”

 

“Oh God.” Ray grabs his books, and goes to the library. He’s not thinking about this. Not thinking about it at all.

~*~

 

It’s really not too bad. He gets stoned and fucked about once a week, twice at worst. Sometimes he has a bad trip and fights back like a cat, which Kyle likes, but most of the time he just lets himself enjoy it. He starts wearing turtlenecks so people can’t see the hickeys. He’s marked and scratched all over his chest and thighs and ass, but what no-one sees doesn’t matter. Sometimes he’s got a black eye, or a split lip, and he just gives a wise guy grin when people ask about it. Says: “You should see the other guy.” Ma disapproves of him getting into fights, but at least she doesn’t know the truth.

 

Most of his days he’s still studying in the library, even though he’s finding it harder to retain the information, and he’s managing to hand his assignments in on time. Still getting straight A’s in Italian, C’s and B’s in English. Hannah’s his library study buddy, which helps. He keeps cribbing her notes. He’d never have got through Chaucer without her.

 

Hannah’s the one who says something.

 

They’re in the library, cramming for the end of year exams, and she leans back in her chair, glances around the room, and drops her voice. “You know,” she says, “if you’re in trouble, you can always talk to me or Simon.”

 

Ray blinks. “What about?”

 

She looks at him patiently. He tries to stare her down. She sighs.

 

“Simon’s in the next room from you,” she says. “He’s heard things.”

 

Ray flushes, then goes cold. “He’s heard nothing.”

 

_“I’ve_ heard it,” she says. “When we’re in there studying.”

 

“Studying, right.” Ray stares down at the line of text, and he can’t read a word. If Simon heard it, then so did his roomie. Add Hannah, that makes at least three other people who know. Plus Frankie of course. Which means Kyle’s entire fraternity. Which means everybody. Ray hasn’t been thinking about it. Fuck.

 

“You know you could go to the Dean.”

 

“And say what?” Ray’s eyes are burning. There’s no point pretending. “I get high and take it up the ass? That’ll make my Ma so proud.”

 

“You could ask for another roomie.”

 

“I’ve already had another roomie. How do I know another one would be any better?”

 

“Well, he couldn’t be much worse. Look at you.” She reaches out, and pulls up the sleeve of his sweater. He tugs it back down to cover the bruises. “It’s getting worse, Ray, isn’t it?”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“Ray,” she leans forward and whispers so nobody can hear. “It’s not your fault if he’s raping you.”

 

Ray blinks, opens and shuts his mouth. Scrapes back his chair and stands. She puts her hand on his, and he freezes.

 

“It is not your fault.”

 

“He’s not raping me.”

 

“What is it then?”

 

Ray feels his face twist. It might be a smile. “I’m a fag,” he says. “That’s all. Now leave it.”

~*~

 

He makes it through the final quarter, thinks he probably did okay in the exams, when Kyle invites him to a party. He’s been threatening it a while, but Ray’s always managed to talk his way out of it.

 

“No,” he says.

 

“Oh, come on, Baby,” Kyle says. “You need to celebrate. We’ve got a private yacht. It’ll be fun.”

 

“I don’t want to go.”

 

“I won’t see you till next semester,” Kyle complains. “Besides, I’ve got some people I want you to meet.”

 

“I don’t want to meet your friends.”

 

“Why not?” Kyle is leaning back on his bed, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. He’s high, but in a lazy way. “They’ve heard all about you.”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“Oh, come on, come on, come on.” Kyle sits up, bouncing on the bed, and grins. “You’ll like it. Frankie will be there. He’s hardly seen you all year. It’s like you’ve been avoiding him or something.” He licks his lip. “He’s dying to meet you again.”

 

Ray closes his eyes. Of course he’s been avoiding Frankie. They’re in different years, doing different majors, there’s no reason at all for him to see Frankie. There’s every reason not to. He knows Kyle knows it too. God’s sake, Ray has slept in the library before now, just to avoid Frankie when Kyle has had him over.

 

“Come on, Baby,” Kyle wheedles.

 

Ray feels a hard knot of anger building up in him, but he knows now from experience that if he gives into it, if he lashes out, it will just turn Kyle on. Kyle is bigger than him, stronger than him, and he always wins.

 

“I’m not going to any party.”

 

“That’s okay,” Kyle says. “Frankie said if you don’t come, he’ll ask your sister.”

 

The world stops dead. Ray’s head is ringing with sudden silence, and he says, “Maria’s got a boyfriend.”

 

“Nah,” Kyle says. “The other one. I think it sounds cute.” He blows out another ring of smoke, and says in a sing-song voice: “Frankie and Frannie, sitting in a tree -”

 

Ray lunges across the room, and smashes his fist into Kyle’s face.

 

When Ray wakes up, his pants are round his ankles, and he knows his ass is bleeding. There are other people in the room. At first he has no clue who any of them are. He blinks, and their faces come looming into view. There’s Hannah, and her boyfriend Simon, and whoever Simon’s roomie is. Kyle is nowhere to be seen. Hannah’s leaning over him, speaking, and holding up her fingers. They’re all blurry.

 

Oh, fuck it. Ray closes his eyes.

~*~

 

The Dean comes to the hospital, and wants him to press charges. Ray turns his head on the pillow, and says “no.” This is all real familiar — he doesn’t want to think about Frankie, but… God. It’s the same damn thing, all over again. Kyle is a friend of Frankie’s, and that makes the police no use at all. And even if he could go to the police, then he’d have to tell Ma what’s been going on. There’s just a chance that she won’t have to find out. Or… at least that everyone could pretend nobody knew, so they’d never ever have to talk about it. That seemed to work out okay last time.

 

“Son,” the Dean says, “I really think you should press charges.” It’s only when the man says ‘Son’ that Ray remembers Wilson isn’t just the Dean, he’s also a priest. Ray can use that to his advantage. If he asks for Confession, then the guy won’t be able to tell anyone anything, not Ma, not the police, nobody. Ray rolls onto his side, faces the man, and covers his eyes with his hands.

 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he says, then peeks through his fingers. The Dean is leaning forward on his knees wearily. He pulls out a purple stole from his briefcase, kisses it, drapes it on his shoulders like a scarf. Ray shuts his eyes again. Good. “It’s been a month since my last confession,” he says, and swallows. Something strikes him, painfully, in the heart.

 

_Jesus,_ he thinks, and it isn’t a curse. _I’m using a Sacrament to get out of talking to the police. What the hell is wrong with me?_

 

He’s asked for Confession. This guy - the Dean, the Father, whatever, whoever he’s being right now… he is honestly doing his job. Meeting his calling. His vocation. If nothing else, this guy deserved honesty.

 

_Oh God._ Ray shivers. He’s gonna have to  tell the truth… Whatever that turns out to be.

 

“Actually,” his voice breaks out of him, a whisper. “I lied. I haven’t made a good confession since....”

 

“When, Son?”

 

Ray’s voice chokes. “Since I was twelve.”

 

He confesses everything. All the way back to Marco, even though he doesn’t think that was a sin. It was a turning point though — before that don’t matter. It’s a start to the story, at least. Everything else falls from that.

 

So, Ray tells the Dean — the priest — everything. Tells him all about Frankie and what happened in the shower, how he did nothing to protect Marco at the Holy Family Community Centre. He tells him all about the girls, though not by name, admits to what he remembers with the guy, or guys. Confesses about getting the clap, probably spreading it. Confesses what he did to Adam and to Tommy, admits that part of him is still glad. He confesses to hanging around down the pool hall with Pa, drinking bourbon, watching him hustle Mr Chang. He tells him about the time he beat on Pa, that he wanted to kill him. That he knows that’s one of the big sins, but he can’t honour his father — all he can do is keep his mouth shut about him.

 

He tells him everything else he can think of, including the last year, the drugs, and the thing - this horrible thing with Kyle.

 

By the time he’s finished, his throat is dry. The Dean - Father Wilson - sits back in his chair, and looks at the ceiling. His lips are moving, like he’s praying, or talking to God. Superstitiously, Ray glances up at the ceiling himself, just in case Someone is watching.

 

“Son,” the priest says. “Do you repent of all those sins?”

 

“Yeah.” Ray frowns. “No.” He feels compelled to honesty by the presence of Whatever, Whoever Father Wilson has been talking to. “I mean... I mean, I’m not sorry about loving who I loved.”

 

“You mean the boy, when you were twelve.”

 

Ray flushes. That’s exactly who he meant. “We didn’t hurt anyone.”

 

“And what about the girl? The one you gave your ring to? Are you sorry about her?”

 

“Yeah,” Ray whispers. Irene had written to him over the past year. When things started happening with Kyle, he’d stopped writing back. “I never meant to hurt her.”

 

“Sin hurts people, Son,” the priest says. “It hurts the sinner, it hurts the ones you love. It hurt your boyhood friend, it hurt you, it hurt every girl you ever slept with, the men you fornicated with, whether you remember them or not. It hurt your little sister’s reputation. It hurt your sweetheart.”

 

Ray doesn’t say anything. He feels like there’s a knife twisting in his chest.

 

“What happened to you is a sin,” the priest says, “a terrible sin. And God will punish the guilty. But you have to accept that you are a sinner too. Homosexuality is a crime against God.” He pauses. “Unless you repent of it, I cannot absolve you.”

 

“You.... What?” _Now I’m going to hell?_

 

“I’m really sorry, Son,” the priest says, then adds, hopefully, “do you at least _want_ to repent?”

 

Ray can’t speak. He could repent for everything else, but not for having loved Marco, not for having loved Irene.

 

“Son?”

 

Ray knows he could lie, pretend remorse, but he thinks if he did that would be the lie — the sin — that would finally damn him.

 

“I’m sorry, Father,” he whispers. “No. I can’t repent.”

 

“Then I can’t absolve you.”

 

“You’d absolve a murderer,” Ray says, bitterly. “You’d absolve the Zukos.”

 

“If they repented, yes.”

 

Repent? The Zukos? Everyone knows what they do, but Old Man Zuko still stands up there every Sunday and takes the Sacrament.

 

“But it wasn’t wrong,” Ray protests. “I mean, it’s not like I killed anyone.”

 

The priest remains silent.

 

“Okay, so I mean, most of it, yeah, I’m sorry I was such a…” He stumbles. He can’t think of a word for what he was. Nothing he can say to a priest anyway. He swallows. “Yeah,” he admits, thinking of Carla, thinking of poor abandoned Tish and her fatherless child. _Not my fault, I wasn’t even the Dad._ He still feels bad about it. Like, maybe in another world he’d be a better man if he was the Dad. “Yeah, I’m sorry. But…”

 

“But?”

 

“But not about Marco....” Ray stops. He hadn’t meant to give the name. He heaves a shuddering sigh. The guy has probably guessed by now. “Not about Irene.”

 

“It was wrong, Son.” The priest packs up his stole, and stands. “I’ll pray for you. When you’re ready to repent, however long it takes, go back to Confession. Even years from now. God is patient, and always ready to forgive.”

 

_What?_ Ray panics. “You’re not gonna… you’re not gonna absolve me? You’re not gonna give me penance? A… a rosary or something?” Not even a novena? He’d say a year’s worth of them, if that meant anything.

 

“There can be no Absolution where there is no repentance.”

 

“What am I going to do?” Ray’s heart is hammering in his chest, his voice high with panic.

 

“Your best, Son.” Father Wilson - the Dean - looks down at him, with sad, old, merciless eyes. “Don’t compound your sin by lying to God,” he adds. “You have committed sins that you haven’t even confessed to, that you never even knew you were committing.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“I assume you’ve been taking Communion all these years?”

 

“Yeah - oh -” Shit. He’d never even thought about that. He’d looked down on Old Man Zuko for taking Communion when everyone (including the priest) knew he was an out and out murderer, but he’d never thought of himself like that - like he was a liar too.

 

“You know that you can’t take Communion until you’ve repented and been absolved.”

 

“What... what?”

 

“I’m sorry, Son. You’ve dishonoured not just your own body, and those of others, but you have dishonoured God.”

 

“God?”

 

“Yes, Son.” The priest’s voice drops into sympathy. “I’m so sorry.” He really sounds it. “I’ll pray for you.”

 

Ray shuts his eyes, and rolls over, turns his back on the priest. The door clicks shut, and he’s alone.

~*~

 

He gets septicemia when one of the stitches tears, which turns out to be a good thing. They keep him in hospital a bit longer, and he’s back on the happy juice for a while. It means he doesn’t have to go home yet. He gets tested for VD, again - turns out this is the third time in his life he’s been checked for that. He hadn’t understood what was going on when he was thirteen.

 

And then he’s home. He lies his ass off to Ma. Tells her he’s been brawling. He worries what the doctor put on Ma’s insurance, but he pleaded with the woman, and he is almost sure she covered it up. He knows the College haven’t said anything - ‘Seal of the Confessional,’ and all that bullshit. He just hopes to hell Ma believes him when he says it was an ordinary fight. He’s not going to push it, and she’s not asking any questions. She’s looking tired, and disappointed, and Pa’s back, though at least these days he’s keeping to his corner.

 

So, nobody says anything more about it. His grades come through the mail, and they’re better than anyone expected, but nobody celebrates.

 

He goes back for his first set of blood results, and to his surprise, he turns out to be clean. He’s not getting too excited though. The doctor tells him that he’ll have to come in for regular HIV tests for at least another year.

 

He thinks, if he does turn out to have AIDS, he’ll book into a hotel somewhere and kill himself. He considers the ways. Not a gun, though that would be quickest. Fill your mouth with water, and that way even if the bullet goes wrong, the concussion the brain pan, so he won’t end up brain damaged, just dead.

 

On the other hand, some poor maid would open the door at the hotel and find him like that. He couldn’t do that to anyone. Worse, Ma couldn’t have an open casket, and besides, the blood might put other people at risk. He considers a car and a hosepipe, but can’t think of a secure garage to park up in. Some bastard might come and save him. And he could end up oxygen deprived and spend the rest of his wretched life blubbering on his shirt. He’ll have to take an overdose.

 

He does some research at the library, and thinks he’s figured out the best way. Insulin, he decides. Inject it in his leg. Can’t throw that up, and it works fast. Easy enough to get a false prescription for that, not like asking for pain pills. Even if he can’t get a prescription, worst comes to worst, he can steal some off Ma’s cousin Lina. He doesn’t like the idea, but at least the option’s there if there’s no other choice. Besides, she’s always forgetting to take her insulin — it’s not like she’d miss it.

 

He thinks about the actual moment — putting the needle in his thigh. Even thinking about it his heartbeat quickens and his hands shake. He’ll probably need to take something to calm him down first though. Sedate him just enough not to panic, but not so much that he puts the needle in wrong. He’ll find something. Maybe he’ll just use booze.

 

He’s not feeling too scared yet, but if he does have to do it, he knows he’ll be terrified. He hopes he doesn’t chicken out. It’s not that he wants to die, it’s not that he wants to add suicide to his sins - he knows it would break Ma’s heart. But anything would be better than her watching him die of AIDS.

 

He spends the summer working in the factory, and transfers to Roosevelt University in the fall.

~*~

 

This time, he gets a full grant. Dean Wilson, of all people, wrote him a glowing recommendation, and his grades were good. Ma puts her foot down, tells him to quit at the factory, and stop messing around. No more getting into fights. Maria’s working, Ma’s working - even Pa’s working some of the time, some deadbeat job for Zuko. “We don’t need the money right now,” Ma says, firmly. “It’s time to get your life in order.”

 

Ray decides to see if he lives the year. In the meantime, he does what she says. He’s glad not to be humping that damn job at least. No more third shift, so he gets to lie in on a Saturday. Ma’s upset that he’s stopped going to church, but there’s nothing he can do about that.

 

Campus is strange at first - he doesn’t know anyone, so it’s like being a freshman all over again - but if he doesn’t know anyone, then they don’t know him. That’s good.

 

His new roomie is a guy called Ken, scrawny, sandy-haired, and covered with acne. He plays the guitar, badly. Ray rebuffs all attempts at friendly overtures, and spends the first few nights listening to the other guy snore. He knows nothing bad is going to happen, but he can’t switch his brain off. It’s about three days before he gets any sleep. By that point, Ken has stopped trying to be sociable, and has obviously decided Ray’s someone to avoid. Ray’s fine with that. He spends the year not talking to anyone outside of class, and getting his assignments in on time.

 

A year after his first blood test, he’s given the all clear. He stares at the print out the doctor handed him for a full minute while the news sinks in. He doesn’t know where the fuck he is, or what he’s going to do next. Over the last few weeks he’d convinced himself that he’d gotten lucky so far, that he was definitely getting the bad news today. He’d got the insulin this morning, bought the bourbon, booked the hotel. Written his letter to Ma. He’d had his death all planned out, and now he’s got to live.

 

He leaves the clinic, shreds the suicide note and the printout (negative, negative, negative) and dumps the insulin pen down the drain, along with the valium. He takes his bottle of bourbon to the hotel room, and though he loathes the stuff, he drinks himself to sleep.

~*~

 

The third year mirrors the second, only without the threat of imminent death. He relaxes a bit, studies, goes home at the weekends. Takes the kids to the movies, smuggled in the back of a three-hundred dollar car. They giggle, and think it’s cool, and he likes playing the big brother. Shows Paulie how to hot-wire an engine, ’cause that’s a rite of passage thing, then tells him never ever to do it. Next week Paulie’s caught driving his best friend’s father’s beat up Ford. He gets off with a warning, and Ma clouts Ray around the ear.

 

But yeah - finally. No real drama. He smiles a bit more, talks a bit more. Argues with the family, but not like anyone’s life depends on it. He argues most with Frannie, who is growing up too fast. She’s started wearing makeup, and skirts above her knees. She tells him he’s overprotective, and he wishes he could tell her why.

 

She’s not an idiot. She probably knows.

 

Then he’s into the end of the last semester. He thinks he’s going to fail - he knows he’s going to fail -  then it’s all over. He’s finished college, he hasn’t failed, he’s got a degree. He’s got a job in an office, trades up his car, and Ma is proud. Outside the family he hasn’t got a friend in the world, but then -

 

Then there’s Angie.

~*~

 

It’s a family wedding, and he’s sitting at the back of the marquee while everyone else is dancing. He’s on his third or fourth Pinot Grigio, watching the bride and groom. Lucia. God. Someone married her. He wonders how many of the guys at the reception banged her, then figures, who cares? Good for her. She got lucky. The guy she’s marrying - his second cousin on Ma’s Pa’s side - looks over the moon to be with her. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s got a lovely wife. Someone to hang on to when it’s dark, and he’s lonely.

 

_That could be me up there._

 

He’s being stupid. He’s not jealous of the guy, he’s jealous of them. He’s jealous of them being a couple, of them not being all alone. He finishes his wine, and puts it carefully on the table. He doesn’t usually drink that much, except a glass of wine at dinner sometimes, and he’s not eaten a lot today. It’s gone straight to his head.

 

_God. Admit it, Vecchio, the only reason you’re obsessing about Lucia is because you don’t want to think about Irene._

 

He tries to shake it off, the feeling of emptiness, like he’s hungry for something he can never have, but it won’t go. _At least,_ he thinks, _I’m not like Pa. I’m a maudlin drunk, not a mean drunk._

 

God - he’s pathetic. _Stop thinking about Irene._

 

He can’t. How can he? Because Irene is there, right _there,_ over by the buffet, talking to her fiancé. Ray tries not to look at her. God - he never wanted to marry anyone but Irene. And in a year or two she’s gonna be marrying some goombah who looks good in a suit, some rich prick her Pa picked out for her. A crooked lawyer or something. He must be ten years older than Irene. Bastard looks good in a suit.

 

A waiter passes with a tray, and Ray changes his mind, takes another drink from it. So what if he does get plastered? Year or so from now, he’d be sitting getting plastered at Irene’s wedding, watching someone else be the groom.

 

_Fuck’s sake, Vecchio. Of course she’s gonna marry that guy. Not her fault, and nothing you can do about it._ Ray sips his wine. Who does he think he is, feeling sorry for himself? He’s the one who dropped Irene after all. Didn’t even end it, didn’t even make an excuse. Just stopped writing. He can’t blame her if she barely even looked at him when she walked in. For one second there was a flash of hurt on her face, and he thought there might be something left — even anger would be better than nothing. But no. Not even that.

 

“Hey, Irene,” he had said, conscious of everything he’d never told her.

 

She didn’t even speak to him. Just nodded her head politely, as she might do to a complete stranger, then calmly walked over to the Zuko clan. Like the family was some kind of magnet or vortex, and she’d never had a chance to walk away.

 

_God. We never had a chance._

 

People are supposed to be happy at a wedding. He’s an idiot. He’s had too much to drink, that’s all.

 

He leans his head back, and shuts his eyes. Pa’s making a fool of himself, singing along with Frank Sinatra, and Frankie’s on the dance floor like he owns it, waltzing with one bridesmaid after the other. Ray’s glad Frannie wasn’t asked to be a bridesmaid, even though she sulked about it for a week. He still fantasises about smashing Frankie’s face in, though he knows he’ll never do it. Seeing Frannie dance with Frankie though — Yeah. That might do it.

 

This wouldn’t be the place for him to commit suicide, he thinks wryly, and smiles. He’ll probably go home soon.  

 

“This seat taken?” A female voice interrupts his drifting thoughts, and there’s a rustle next to him as somebody sits down.

 

“Nah, it’s all yours,” Ray says, and opens his eyes.

 

_Angie,_ he thinks. _Angela Salvagno._ One of the bride’s maids, and on her that horrible salmon pink dress looks good. _Bride probably picked it deliberately to make the bride’s maids look like froo-froos._ He hasn’t spoken to Angie since high school. “Wow,” he says, looking her up and down. “You’re gorgeous.”

 

She looks back at him, and lifts an eyebrow. “And you’re drunk.”

 

“Just a little,” he admits, and drains his glass. “I’ll be sober in the morning, and you’ll still be gorgeous.”

 

She turns her head away, and laughs. “I wondered if you’d ever get around to hitting on me.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I mean,” she says, and folds one leg over the other, smooths her dress over her knee. “I used to wonder what was wrong with me. Not that I’d have said yes if you asked me to, but you fucked everybody else.”

 

Ray groans. “Yeah,” he admits. “I was a slut back then.”

 

“You were,” she agrees, and turns her face away from him, watching the dance floor.

 

She’s not even looking at him, and he knows he’s digging a hole, but he tries to brave it out. Maybe he’s in luck after all. Maybe she’s jealous - that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Maybe? Even if it’s not, he should say something. “I had really bad taste,” he apologises. “You were a nice girl. I only went with girls who were easy.”

 

She turns then, and glares at him. “My cousin’s getting married today,” she says. “Are you saying she’s easy?”

 

“Oh God,” Ray cringes. “I didn’t mean that. I meant....” He smacks his forehead. “Sorry, I’m an idiot.”

 

“You are,” she says, and stands. “Are you coming?” She nods toward the dance floor.

 

He blinks up at her. “What?”

 

“Frankie’s looking over,” she says. “I don’t want to dance with him. You know how to dance, don’t you?”

 

Ray gets to his feet, bewildered by the quick change, and holds his arm out. He thinks she’s asking him to dance. She takes it, and tugs - she really _is_ asking him to dance. He leads her to the dance floor just as the band strike up another tune. She turns, and they fall into step together. She smirks a little. “Always wondered what it would be like to dance with you,” she says.

 

“Oh yeah?” Ray feels one corner of his mouth twitch up in a smile. His dick’s feeling interested - he hasn’t seen this much action in years. He tries to put on his best suave and sophisticated face, but he’s out of practice. “You wanted to dance with me?”

 

“Yeah.” She flicks his tie. “Even if I would have to wash my hands after.”

 

“Hey,” Ray steps back, offended. He’s not feeling turned on anymore. “If you think I’m such a sleaze, why are you dancing with me?”

 

She steps forward, and puts her arms round him again. “You’re not that bad,” she murmurs. “I’m only teasing.”

 

“Oh.” They start dancing again, but he’s feeling bad now. She’s giving him mixed signals, and he’s not sure what to make of it.

 

“Maybe I’m a little bit drunk as well,” she admits.

 

“Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that. “Well, I’ll have to make sure you get home safely then.” He frowns when he hears what that sounds like, but before he can explain himself she’s giggling.

 

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” she whispers. “Me and Lucia don’t really like each other. She just picked me to make up the numbers.”

 

“Well, I’m glad she did,” Ray says. “The rest of the bride’s maids are stinkers.”

 

Angie presses one hand up against her mouth, then cracks up laughing. She laughs so hard she gets the shakes, and Ray loses the rhythm of the dance, has to stop again. They stand there like idiots in the middle of the dance floor, right in everyone’s way, and Ray’s grinning at a joke he doesn’t even get. He has no idea what she’s laughing at.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“‘Stinkers,’” she snorts. “God, Ray. You’re awful.”

 

Ray’s just about to say something - something hilarious no doubt - when he feels a tap on his shoulder. It’s Frankie.

 

“Can I cut in?”

 

“No,” Angie says, before Ray can speak up for her. “No, you cannot.” She flounces her hair, dramatically, and declares to the room: “I am taking this man home.”

 

“Angie!” Ray goggles at her. Frankie goggles too. He’s not used to people saying ‘no.’ Ray’s not used to wanting to laugh at him either.

 

“Come on,” Angie says, and turns on her high heels. She waves over her shoulder at Frankie and snatches Ray’s hand, pulls him along with her. “Tell everybody goodbye, and thanks for a lovely evening.”

 

Ray looks at Frankie, and smirks. “I have to see her home,” he says. “She’s drunk.”

~*~

 

It doesn’t go quite the way Ray expected. For one thing, he hasn’t had sex with a girl since Irene, or anyone in the last two and a half years; for another, he doesn’t carry condoms on him anymore. Plus, by the time they get back to Angie’s place the cold air has sobered him up some, and he doesn’t want to take advantage if she really is drunk.

 

“I’m still not your type then,” she sighs, leaning against her apartment door. “Shame.”

 

“No, yeah - you are. I just mean....”

 

She tilts her head a little to the side, and looks shrewd. “Is Frankie more your type?”

 

“Cazzo!” He steps back like she slapped him, as shocked by swearing in front of her as he is by what she said. “No, why would you think that?”

 

“Sorry,” she says, and looks embarrassed. “God, I really did have too much to drink. I don’t know why I said that.”

 

“Yeah,” Ray turns to go. This evening, like pretty much his life so far, has been a big bust. “It’s nothing that hasn’t been said.”

 

“I’m really sorry,” she calls after him. “I shouldn’t listen to gossip.”

 

Ray turns to look at her. “Does Frankie know everyone thinks he’s a fanook?”

 

A slow sly smile spreads across her face. “I can’t believe nobody ever thought of it that way,” she says. “I’ll have to put that one around.”

 

“God, no. He’ll kill you.”

 

“He can try,” she says. “Another few months, I’ll be able to arrest him.”

 

“What?” Ray scratches the back of his head, and wonders if he’s still tipsy.

 

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m going to graduate.”

 

“What are you majoring in?” he asks, puzzled. He’d thought she’d already finished college, but she hadn’t been on his radar, so he wasn’t keeping track.

 

She rolls her eyes. “Police Academy,” she says. “I thought everyone had heard. It’s the shame of my family.”

 

“What... you’re going to be a cop?”

 

“Yup,” she says. “I’ll have a uniform and everything. Handcuffs. You can come around and play.”

 

Maybe this evening hasn’t been completely wasted. “Here’s my number,” he says, and scribbles it down on the back of a receipt. “If you ask me when you’re sober, I’ll say yes.”

~*~

 

Next Monday he’s on his way to work when the phone rings, and Paulie yells at him as he’s putting on his coat. “Your girlfriend’s on the phone.”

 

“Who?”

 

Paulie shrugs, the universal gesture of ‘I dunno,’ and throws him the receiver. Ray catches it, drops his briefcase, gets briefly tangled in his coat, and manages not to trip over the cable. He glares at Paulie, but the kid is already disappearing into the kitchen. “Hello? Who is this?”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Angie?”

 

“Yeah.” She sounds nervous. “Guess what? I’m sober. Wanna play cops and robbers after work sometime?”

~*~

 

They get married in the spring. It’s a short engagement - everyone thinks Angie is pregnant. They’re gonna be surprised when the baby doesn’t come along. Ray and Angie have a plan. She’s talked him into joining the Police Academy. He doesn’t know why he never thought of it before — it would be one way to make a difference. Stand against the Zukos of the world. Protect what’s right. A way to not be a ‘common man.’

 

_Besides, it’ll make Pa spit feathers._

 

So, yeah. The plan is, he’s going to graduate Academy, they’ll both put in a few years working the beat, then the first one who gets promoted, the other one goes part-time to mind the kids.

 

Five years, Ray reckons, maybe six. He bets Angie gets first promotion.

 

_God, I’ll have to change diapers._ He smiles. He likes that idea.

 

Pa’s not at the wedding, which is a blessing. He completely stopped talking to Ray when he found out he was dating a cop, then stopped talking to Ma when he found out ‘her’ son was going to be a cop. He isn’t even scrounging money off them anymore. Everyone else turns up though, despite the scandal of the fact they’re not getting married in a church.

 

Angie keeps asking why, and Ray can’t blame her, but he’s getting sick of changing the subject. She’s worse than Ma about it. She’s worse than her own Ma about it, which is saying something. It’s like all at once there’s nothing but wedding stuff; last minute ideas about flowers and bridal outfits, Frannie running around squealing with glee because she finally gets to be a bridesmaid, Paulie swaggering around the house in the best man’s suit, ‘just to break it in.’

 

As if all that isn’t bad enough, everyone wants a wedding and High Mass. _Who’s getting married here?_ Ray really wants to know.

 

“Ray?” Angie rolls over in bed one night, and settles her chin on his shoulder. He likes the snuggle, but he can tell from the tone in her voice that she’s going to ask again. Instinctively, he freezes. She sighs. “Ray,” she asks, “why can’t we get married in the Church?”

 

God. She’s asked before, but this is one time too many. His fists clench, then he flings himself off the bed, slams out of the bedroom, kicks the door.

 

“I can’t take Communion,” he admits. “Happy now?” She follows him into the hallway, where he is buckling his pants, pulling on his shoes.

 

“What?” She steps up into his space, making herself tall. In her bare feet she’s barely past his chin, but he feels tiny. Her eyes narrow. “Did you whack somebody?”

 

“God, Angie, what do you think I am?”

 

“I don’t know,” she snaps. “You just told me you’ve been excommunicated. So, what am I meant to think?”

 

Ray steps away from her, buttons his shirt, starts shrugging on his coat. He shouldn’t be staying at her apartment anyway, not so near the wedding night. It upsets Ma. Angie puts a hand on his coat cuff and shakes it. “Look,” she’s trying to sound reasonable, but her breath is shallow. He can hear that she’s upset, maybe even frightened. “I know your Pa’s on Zuko’s crew. Did they make you do something when you were a kid? I mean, I know sometimes they do that. Did they make you kill somebody?”

 

“Leave it, Angie. You’ve been reading too much Mario Puzo.”

 

“Well, what did you do then? What could be so bad?”

 

Ray pauses for a moment in the doorway. What’s he supposed to tell her? That when he was a boy he loved another boy? Or is he supposed to tell her that he was raped? She might even know that already. He doesn’t know what people say behind his back.

 

“What’s wrong, Ray?” she asks, gently. “You can tell me anything.”

 

He stares off into space. “I don’t even know which one’s supposed to be the sin,” he says.

 

“Come on,” she urges, and takes his hand, squeezes his fingers tight. “You can tell me.”

 

He looks at her. For a second he thinks about it. Maybe he could. Maybe he could tell her everything.

 

Then he remembers Dean Wilson, and how confession made things worse.

 

No. He doesn’t want her to hate him, or despise him. He doesn’t want her to look at him with pity in her eyes.

 

“If God can’t forgive me,” he chokes out, “I’m not telling you.”

 

Angie marries him anyway.

~*~

 

Really, he thinks later, when the marriage is over, the imaginary children long gone, he should have told her then. That was their first row. Their first secret. It might have made a difference if he’d told her. If he’d known what to say, then maybe she’d have stayed.

 

Maybe. Maybe not. It mighta been that he bought the Riv without telling her, then never let her drive it. It mighta been when they found out he was shooting blanks. That’d do it for most women. Whatever. He’ll never know for sure. Mighta been all his ghosts at the table, even before Pa came along with that graveyard stink.

 

It doesn’t matter now.

 

Ray puts a hand round Ma’s waist to support her, and stares down into his father’s grave. He hasn’t seen the man in nearly three years. This day, which was always coming, comes as a surprise. The bastard wrapped his car around a lamp post - he died just like he’d lived. Drunk. Somehow Ray had stopped thinking about him - or tried to. And yet some tiny part of him, some childish part, had thought the Old Man could never die.

 

Only he didn’t, did he? He turned up in Ray’s kitchen, lounging by the coffee maker, even before the undertakers had sealed the damn box shut.

 

Maybe that was it - the final straw. For Angie, for their marriage. Coming in to find Ray screaming at his father, ranting at the walls.

 

_The Old Man wins again._

 

Ray is dry-eyed as he throws dirt onto the coffin.

 

It’s a sunny day, for a funeral. Angie isn’t there.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> More to follow. Watch this space.


End file.
